


Sorrow Shared

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Female Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Trespasser, Remembrance, background bastien/vivienne, background solavellan, vivienne-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21329122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Some years after the defeat of Corypheus, Lavellan pays Grand Enchanter Vivienne a visit on the anniversary of Duke Bastien's death.
Relationships: Bastien de Ghislain/Vivienne, Female Inquisitor & Vivienne (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Vivienne (Dragon Age), Lavellan & Vivienne
Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307045
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Sorrow Shared

**Author's Note:**

> I just love Vivienne as a complex character and she and my Lavellan got quite close, particularly after Gwen pursued the knight-enchanter school of magic. I imagine they have quite a lot to talk about in the pain department, what with Bastien dying and Solas turning out to be an ancient elven god bent on the destruction of the world as they know it. You know--girl problems.
> 
> My headcanon height for Viv is min. 6 feet so she _towers_ over Gwen, short little elf that she is.
> 
> See more about Gwen on her [tumblr tag.](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/tagged/guinevere%20lavellan)

On the anniversary, Lavellan went to visit. It was winter then, the crystalline tree branches reaching up to the pearlescent sky, frost crusting the gilded eaves of the Orlesian mansions. It was not at Vivienne’s apartment at the College of Enchanters, but the small estate she maintained quietly on the edges of Ghislain. Both declared in no uncertain terms Vivienne’s impeccable sense of style and ornate tastes. As the head of the College of Enchanters, which not even Divine Victoria would topple, she was in a position—yet again—to command favors that suited her style of living.

Wrapped in furs, the stump of her arm aching in the cold, Lavellan made her way up the drive. The estate was quite small for Vivienne, but she rarely spent time there—it was little more than an escape from the College, should she need it. If there was ever a day she needed it most, it was this one. Sympathetic pains had been bolting through Lavellan’s heart all day, and in the days leading up to the anniversary. Their sense of loss was not the same, but it was similar, and she could see through Vivienne’s aloof façade to the incurable ache in her breast. She was not sure Vivienne would ever love again, the way she had loved Bastien.

Lavellan was greeted by a valet.

“Madame Vivienne is in the blue drawing room,” she was told. The valet made a gesture to take Lavellan’s outerwear, but she did not understand, and dismissed it as a fidget as she trooped her way to the drawing room, having at least stomped the snow from her boots before entering the house. She crossed over handwoven carpets with thick tassels of golden thread, by carefully carved moldings and fantastically rendered oil paintings. By freshly polished sconces and over shining marble floors and past so many empty rooms.

In the blue drawing room, Vivienne reclined on a white divan with swooping mahogany legs and splayed feet. Lavellan paused in the doorway, studying her old friend’s drawn face. Catching Vivienne unawares was the best way to get a genuine expression out of her, though Guinevere was one of the few people who could do it otherwise. Vivienne had not _asked_ her to come, but she had hinted, and when Lavellan made the proposal, it had been swiftly accepted. Three years since Bastien’s death—it wasn’t really so long, after all the time they had spent together, was it?

What a tragedy it was, their love, Lavellan thought. From the start, they had known one day Vivienne would sit by Bastien’s deathbed, if only by virtue of their ages. But she had loved him anyway—even knowing.

“How are you doing?” Vivienne’s head snapped up, her expression immediately smoothing over, then relaxing a degree or two when she recognized Guinevere.

“I think you know the answer to that, dear. Come, sit.” She sat up and gestured for Lavellan to have a seat on the couch across from her. “Did Rosette not offer to take your things?”

“Eh?” Lavellan looked herself up and down.

“Never mind, we’ll go out soon anyway. It’s no matter. Here, have something to drink.” She poured her guest a glass of _vin chaud_ and passed it over to her. The blue drawing room was Vivienne’s favorite, and it showed in the loving way it had been decorated, with even more excruciating attention to detail. Nicoline would have approved, from what Vivienne had told Lavellan about her.

Lavellan cupped her hand around the warm bowl of the glass, although she knew it was gauche. Vivienne would not reproach her when it was just the two of them, though she perched her own glass so delicately between her fingers it seemed to float on her hand. Sometimes, Lavellan thought Vivienne would have done quite well in Arlathan.

“How was your trip?” Vivienne asked.

“Productive,” Lavellan answered. The estate was warmer than the fire warranted—Lavellan could feel the low hum of magic in the room as Vivienne kept it at a comfortable temperature. She started to sweat under her winter coat. “I was able to stop by Val Falaise on the way in to pick up some of the texts I ordered.”

“Still doing your research?” Lavellan nodded solemnly, letting the warm breath of her wine unthaw her nose. “Please, stop by the Circle of Magi here on your way out,” she said. “I’ll even go with you; we can see if there is anything there you might use.” Despite Vivienne’s notable disapproval of Lavellan’s quest, particularly Lavellan’s deep dive into increasingly esoteric and obscure magical arts, she offered her help wherever she could. The two women lapsed into silence, sipping their wine and ruminating on the follies of love.

“Did you want to go out?” Lavellan asked at last, when Vivienne had emptied her wine glass. Vivienne turned it about in her hand, studying the purple dregs, then nodded slowly.

“Yes, let’s go.” Unfurling from her seat like a blooming flower, Vivienne rose and set her wine glass down. There was a heaviness to her eyes that troubled Guinevere’s heart. She too, rose, and approached where Vivienne had paused on her way to the door.

“My heart is broken with yours, _lethallan_,” she said softly, touching Vivienne’s hand.

“When you say that, I believe it,” Vivienne said in a tight voice, looking down at the Inquisitor. “It’s what makes you such a lovely friend.” She grasped Lavellan’s hand for a moment, then called for a coat. Thus attired, they made their way out.

It was not far to the yard where Bastien’s memorial was kept. Vivienne had ensured he was interred with the rest of his line, but the money and effort she had poured into his memorial made it stand apart from all the others for the quality and size of the stone edifice, cleaned regularly to ensure no moss grew and no pieces of it crumbled away. It was visible nearly from the entrance.

On such a chilly midwinter day, the graveyard was silent but for the crunch of the two mages’ steps as they made their way along the prescribed paths. The snow had been cleared, but frost had crusted over the earth overnight. The air pinched at Lavellan’s cheeks and she did not trouble herself with a warming spell. Sometimes, the discomfort was not unwelcome—it grounded her, reminded her she was in the real world.

Vivienne strode through the graves like something out of legend: tall and elegant and determined, seeing nothing but her goal, unaffected by the world around her. Her dark skin was stark against the frosty backdrop, her striking features perfectly complemented by the contrast. Lavellan paused to watch her a moment. Vivienne was not the sort to climb onto Bastien’s funeral pyre or fling herself at his memorial in a teary hysteria but she did make a point of visiting on the anniversary, just to stand there for a few moments, with her memories. Lavellan did not ask questions, and she did not speak—she was only _there_, so Vivienne was not alone.

The Grand Enchanter stood before the memorial, hands clasped before her, looking down at the plaque, and up at the faces of the angels carved overhead. Lavellan kept a respectful distance, near enough to read the plaque and give a thought to Bastien, but far enough to give Vivienne her breathing space.

“I think I’ve been too harsh on you,” Vivienne said at last. Lavellan had begun to lose herself in her thoughts, as she did often those days, and the sudden remark startled her back to the waking world. “Your pursuit of Solas…sometimes you make me think I did not try hard enough for Bastien.” She shook her head. “You knew him far better than I. Perhaps you are right, and he can be saved.”

“I hope,” Guinevere said, her soft voice cracking slightly. “If I try everything and still fail…then at least I will know I did the best I could. If still I fail…” She breathed deeply. “Then I will do what must be done. But you did everything you could have, Vivienne. There is none among us who can stop the march of time.” Vivienne turned to meet Guinevere’s lamenting gaze, the empathetic ache there almost too much.

“And that is admirable of you,” Vivienne said. “I will be forever grateful for your help with Bastien, even though we were unsuccessful. I will not begrudge you my help now. If there ever was one who could find a way to halt time in its tracks, I’m certain it would be you.” There was just the slight extension of Vivienne’s hand to her, but Lavellan saw and stepped forward, slipping her hand into Vivienne’s. Between their gloves, it was a very cushy hand-holding. They regarded the tomb.

“I’m sorry I did not get to know him,” Lavellan said, a sentiment she had expressed before. “Anyone on whom your favor falls must be extraordinary.” She smiled up at Vivienne.

“You are not wrong,” she replied. “You are a perfect example.” The Inquisitor’s smile softened.

“You’re too kind to me, Vivienne.”

“Hardly, darling.” She let go of Lavellan’s hand and again faced her fully. “I insist—if there is anything I can help you with, do write to me. I have connections in Tevinter too. The Inquisition is not what it once was, but you are not alone in this fight, Guinevere. I am with you, and so are the rest of our friends. I may not always agree with you, but you are my friend, and I love you too dearly to let you walk into this alone.”

“And I will be proud to have you by my side, as always,” Guinevere answered, her throat tight, a shine to her eyes that was more than the glint of the winter sun. She met Vivienne’s gaze and pressed her hand over her heart. Her human companion noted this as a powerful display of elven affection, and made a slight return of the gesture.

“Now I think that’s enough wallowing,” Vivienne declared. “Let us return. I will get you something hot to drink, and you can tell me all the things you couldn’t put in your letters.” A subtle smile, pushing at the hounded look that haunted her eyes so often of late, broke across Lavellan’s face.

“That sounds wonderful.”

**Author's Note:**

> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/188848278360/anniversary)| [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/901364)


End file.
